


Just Like Him

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [8]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Domestic Discipline, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Temper Tantrums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parenthood is never easy, being a father without a mother complicate the things further. Address discipline could be hurtful, if the father resent his own childhood. What can a servant do in this situation? Grimaud POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Him

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. The author does not condones or support child or domestic abuse, but she cannot forget that those where part of the customs of the time.

_All pain is a punishment, and every punishment is inflicted_ __  
_for love as much as for justice._  
~ Joseph De Maistre

The children ran from the kitchen while I took the tray that Charlot's wife had prepared with the tea and some slight meal. The fine silver mug with the crest of La Fère was brimmed with hot water and the tea ball was packed with the herbs that I had selected: borage, melisa and rosemary, as usual. I was just going to bring tea to the master of the house, a work that was part of my duties, but in her eyes I saw that I was overstepping my bounds: The master had not asked for a cup of tea.

A part of me was angry because she looked at me that way. I knew the master much better than she; he trained me for years with the explicit purpose that none of his needs remain without satisfaction. I had not spent more than twenty years of my life with him without learning how to recognize the signals of his behavior. I knew the sound of his footsteps, I knew what those long walks with the heels banging against the floorboard, I understood what the sudden silence in his cabinet meant.

At this time, he needed an infusion with herbs from his kitchen-garden; herbs he had ordered me grow and learn about. He needed that cup of herbal tea, even though he would not have asked for it. Another part of me was resigned and willing to accept a blow from his hand, in the event that my instincts were wrong and, in fact, the master was busy with his affairs and my presence was a nuisance. Without a doubt, my desire to please him would not give me a moment's peace if I ignored the warning signs that were so evident. Charlot's wife was very fond of the master, but she never understood these signals and I had not enough words to explain to her the reasons for my actions. So I did my best to emulate the impassive facade of the Count and I thanked her with a brief nod before leaving the kitchen.

The cabinet of the Count was located next to his bedchamber, on the second floor, a short distance from the back stairs. It was a small room for his favorite books, his desk and an armchair. It was his refuge in the house, a place to meditate, to manage his assets, to answer correspondence, and to escape from his little son from time to time. Nobody could go in there without his express permission, including Raoul. Every rule had an exception; In this case, the exception was me. But still, it was hard to take advantage of the license to cross that threshold. I knew him and knew how much he liked being alone and at ease, perhaps that's why he granted me permission in first place. I stood in front of the door and I took a deep breath before knocking. The worst that could happen was that I had to return to the kitchen with that blasted cup of tea.

"Come in!" vouchsafed him with a serious voice.

My hand turned the knob and my hip pushed open the door. I closed the door behind me with a slight kick. It was more comfortable than trying to enter with a tray balanced on one hand; I was not twenty year old anymore. The Count was sitting in his chair, both feet on the footstool, he did not even tried to pretend he was reading a book, his eyes were glued to the portrait of his father with the Order of the Holy Ghost over the mantelpiece; his eyebrows did not move a line when he noticed the herbal tea in my hands, he only made a slight movement with his hand to put it on the desktop that was within reach of his arm.

He was in a brooding mood, which was really obvious: slightly furrowed brow, hand on his cheek, the index finger tapping his temple, long curly hair, still quite black, on the shoulders. I knew that he was reproaching himself for something, he always do it when he assumed that position and when he stopped talking, and his self-loathing was building up inside him like a dark tide.

"Thank you for the tea," he murmured, the words were like metal spikes, by the difficulty that they came from his mouth.

"A good servant does not need a command, only a hint," I taunted, repeating his training axiom.

I felt the weight of his blue eyes on me, he was considering something, I was sure of it. Years ago, when I felt that same look I could have been afraid that he sends me to find something stronger. The wine had always been his cure and his punishment, but it was no longer a threat to him; since the arrival of master Raoul, if you want accuracy. I thought it was strange that he was not in the salon with his boy on his lap, in recent years that was his favorite way to dispel those gloomy fits. I gave him enough time for me to order something else, but as he preferred to go back to the contemplation of the portrait, I just made a bow and headed for the door as slowly as I could. I heard him lift the mug and take the first sip and while I was extending my hand to the doorknob I heard him said:

"I am just like _him_..."

How, in heaven's name, did he manage to cram so much anger, frustration and blame in such a small sentence?

...

All started after the mid-day meal with a small domestic incident.

Raoul had succeeded in getting brashly into the kitchen and he managed to put his little hands in the cookie tin that the Count had bought for him from his last trip to Orléans. Obviously the cook was not pleased with the fact that the young master decides on the resources of her kitchen and she seized the aforementioned object.

Blaring ensued.

Not that I did not expect that Raoul decided to threw a tantrum to get what he wanted, in that he was his father's son. Not that the Count was prone to them now, but as a child, of course he was! What surprised me was that he was so vocal in his outburst. I was in the stables, overseeing the cleaning of the stalls when I heard his cries. At first I thought the child was hurt, so urgent was the emotion in his voice, and I ran into the kitchen with a head full of hundreds of minor accidents that could endanger his life. I imagined him bleeding or covered with burns and I tried not to think of the anguish of my master if the slightest misfortune fell on that angelic head. When I opened the kitchen door, I found a weird scene: The child was sitting on the floor, banging his heels against the packed dirt, his fists against his chest, shedding big tears as he screamed like a pig in the slaughterhouse; his little summer shirt was dirty with dust but he was essentially unharmed.

That child would not be as scathe-less if the house staff, who huddled around him, dared to do what their eyes said they wanted to do. That was: spank his little ass until he had something to cry for. I cannot say I did not agree with them, but this child was the master's boy, and I was not sure he approved us to discipline his offspring; not even to stop the noise. Fortunately, the Count appeared in the kitchen, his face promised a severe punishment for the daring person who dared to build such uproar. Raoul felt his entry and he locked his eyes on his father before redoubling his cries, with the assurance he had that the master could never deny his child what he wanted.

This boy was far from knowing his father.

The Count took a deep breath, waved the people off and he knelt before the child who would not stop bawling for his life. He just had to say a word for that noise to cease completely.

"Silence"

He did not even raise his voice. Raoul shut his mouth and stared at him with moist eyes. I think the idea that his favorite adult would not bend to his will did not fit in his head. The Count stood up and extended his hand towards the child, the order was clear. Raoul almost instinctively obeyed.

"You and I, _M. le Vicomte_ ," he began, leaving the kitchen with the boy in tow. "We have very serious things to talk about ..."

In the kitchen there were only Charlot, his wife and I. Since I was in the kitchen, I asked for a mug of beer, and whiles the good woman was pouring it, we heard a loud blow over our heads.

"Jesus! He will kill the little boy!" said Charlot's wife, frightened by the idea.

Women are such melodramatic bunch. That idea seemed ridiculous to me and that was confirmed by the silence that followed that first hit. It was more likely the Count had given vent to his frustration by slamming a door than by hitting the child. I, who had been the recipient of his blows for years, knew he would never beat his son.

A courier that came knocking at the door drew my attention of this little drama. A letter from Paris was the perfect excuse for me to know what happened in the Count's cabinet. I showed up at his door and informed him about the letter. He opened the door and received the delivery. Sitting in a corner, with the footstool as a bench, Raoul looked at me with a face full of boredom. The bow I did was more to hide my smile than to point to my master that I was retiring. I was sure that Raoul was safe with his father, but knowing that I am right always put me in a good mood. I was about to return to the stables where one of the chambermaids asked me to help her hang clean curtains and thus, I was distracted again. Later, I returned to my work when I heard the voice of the child, higher than usual, from inside the cabinet. Apparently he had learned nothing.

"Those were my cookies!" demanded the little rascal to his father. "Those were my gift!"

In Bragelonne, the rule was never heard behind closed doors. My master had his reasons. But in times like these I did not feel in Bragelonne, but in La Fère, where M. Gédéon sent me find out what was happening. The old training always lasts longer than the new one, and I have to admit that I could not get rid of my old habits; I find them very useful in my work.

"And this is how you should repay my gift, Raoul?" asked the Count, his voice was sober, perfectly controlled, but hurt, "with theft and scandal?"

I could only imagine the scene, but I knew I was not mistaken. The father had prohibited the cookies, as punishment, Raoul felt removed of something of his own, not his privileges. That sentence was clear, the boy's misconduct was not acceptable and if I could feel his word hurting me, the child could only feel their sting worse. This time, Raoul truly began weep, ashamed of his behavior. First came a few choked sobs, then some tears and moans he could not control. I heard the child burst into tears and his steps toward the Count. I shrugged my shoulders and retired to my work, for I knew everything would be fine. The child was not hurt, maybe the reprimand was too strong, but he would survive and he might learn to behave better in the future.

I had things to do in the courtyard...

...

That was the reason why the Count had been walking for over an hour in his cabinet, because he made his child cry.

"You are not like him," I assured him, removing the hand from the doorknob.

My master would never be like the Old Count, he had too much class to beat a child until the boy begged him to stop. He looked up from his mug, he saw me but he did not understand me. If he were like his father, I would have had to strap the boy's wounds up, instead of bringing tea to his cabinet. It was his job to discipline the boy, it was hard, but he did it very well. The Viscount was out playing with Blaisois, he was not injured or hiding in his room in order to conceal the bruises; perhaps the boy had some regrets but that just would help him to improve his behavior.

"Proof?" I offered, pointing to the window of his study.

Once my master started brooding, he was difficult to motivate. It took time to make him understood that he should rise from his chair and look out the window, but he did it. He put his hands on the windowsill and looked out, as I asked him to do. Raoul was sitting on the swing I did for them, Blaisois pushed him and those two were having a good time; that mischievous pair always enjoyed their playtime. It was difficult to find a better argument to say the child was fine and that he was a good father.

"What is he doing?" he asked with an air of disbelief.

"Being a kid," I replied, not believing how obtuse he could be. "A happy one"

"Barefooted?" the Count insisted raising his hands in exasperation. "Who does he think he is? A peasant's son?"

I tried to contain my laughter, but it was impossible. In some things he surely was like his father. He looked shocked, like he could not believe my audacity, but then made the sign to continue. He smiled, shaking his head; he realized that his questions were almost stupid. Raoul was only three and was too young to know better. He did not laugh with me, but I felt that his gloomy mood had left him.

"I guess I'll have to check that his feet are clean before tucking him up," he said moving around to the desk to take the mug. "Thank you, Grimaud"

I nodded.

"It was my pleasure, _M. le Comte_ "


End file.
